Fleshmarket Alley (2004) (11 page)

“Which one?”

“Whoah, right there.” It was a local news program, an outside broadcast of a demo in what was recognizably Knoxland. Hastily contrived banners and placards:

NEGLECTED

WE CANNOT LIVE LIKE THIS

LOCALS NEED HELP TOO
. . .

The reporter was interviewing the couple from the flat next to the victim. Rebus caught the odd word and phrase:
council has a responsibility . . . feelings ignored . . . dumping ground . . . no consultation . . .
It was almost as if they’d been briefed on which buzz words to use. The reporter turned to a well-dressed Asian-looking man wearing silver-rimmed spectacles. His name appeared on-screen as Mohammad Dirwan. He was from something called the Glasgow New Citizens Collective.

“Load of nutters over there,” the barman commented.

“They can shove as many into Knoxland as they like,” a regular agreed. Rebus turned to him.

“As many what?”

The man shrugged. “Call them what you like—refugees or con artists. Whatever they are, I know damned fine who ends up paying for them.”

“Right enough, Matty,” the barman said. Then, to Rebus: “Seen enough?”

“More than enough,” Rebus said, leaving the rest of his drink untouched as he headed for the door.

8

K
noxland hadn’t calmed much by the time Rebus arrived. Press photographers were busy comparing shots, huddled around the screens of their digital cameras. A radio reporter was interviewing Ellen Wylie. Rat-Arse Reynolds was shaking his head as he walked across waste ground to his car.

“What’s up, Charlie?” Rebus asked.

“Might clear the air a bit if we left them to get on with it,” Reynolds growled, slamming his car door shut on the world and picking up an already open packet of crisps.

There was a scrum beside the Portakabin. Rebus recognized faces from the TV pictures: the placards were already showing signs of wear and tear. Fingers were being pointed as an argument continued between the locals and Mohammad Dirwan. Close up, Dirwan looked to Rebus like a lawyer: new-looking black woolen coat, polished shoes, silver mustache. He was gesturing with his hands, voice rising to compete against the noise. Rebus peered through the mesh grille covering the Portakabin’s window. As suspected, there was no one home. He looked around, eventually took the walkway to the other side of the tower block. He remembered the little bunch of flowers at the murder scene. They’d been scattered now, trampled on. Maybe Jim’s friend had left them . . .

A transit van sat on its own in a cordoned zone which normally would have provided parking for residents. There was no one in the front, but Rebus banged on the back doors. The windows were blackened, but he knew he could be seen from within. The door opened and he climbed in.

“Welcome to the toy box,” Shug Davidson said, sitting down again next to the camera operator. The back of the van had been filled with recording and monitoring equipment. Any civil disorder in the city, police liked to keep a record. Useful for identifying the troublemakers and for compiling a case if necessary. From the video screen, it looked to Rebus as though someone had been filming from a second- or third-floor landing. Shots zoomed in and out, blurred close-ups suddenly coming into focus.

“Not that there’s been any violence yet,” Davidson muttered. Then, to the operator: “Go back a bit . . . just there . . . freeze that, will you, Chris?”

There was some flicker to the stilled image which Chris tried to rectify.

“Who is it worries you, Shug?” Rebus asked.

“Shrewd as ever, John . . .” Davidson pointed to one of the figures at the back of the demo. The man wore an olive-green parka, hood pulled over his head, so that only his chin and lips were visible. “I think he was here a few months ago . . . We had this gang from Belfast, trying to vacuum up the drugs action.”

“You put them away, didn’t you?”

“Most of them are on remand. A few headed back home.”

“So why is he back?”

“Not sure.”

“Have you tried asking him?”

“Scampered when he saw our cameras.”

“Name?”

Davidson shook his head. “I’ll have to do a bit of digging . . .” He rubbed at his forehead. “And how’s your day been so far, John?”

Rebus filled him in on Robert Baird.

Davidson nodded. “Good stuff,” he said, not quite managing any level of enthusiasm.

“I know it doesn’t get us any further . . .”

“Sorry, John, I’m just . . .” Davidson shook his head slowly. “We need someone to come forward. The weapon’s got to be out there, blood on the killer’s clothes. Someone
knows.
”

“Jim’s girlfriend might have some ideas. We could bring Gareth in, see if he can spot her.”

“It’s an idea,” Davidson mused. “And meantime, we watch Knoxland explode . . .”

Film was running on four different screens. On one, a crowd of youths was seen standing way to the back of the crowd. They wore scarves across their mouths, hoods up. Spotting the cameraman, they turned and gave him a view of their backsides. One of them picked up a stone and hurled it, but it fell well short.

“See,” Davidson said, “something like that could light the fuse . . .”

“Have there been any actual attacks?”

“Just verbal stuff.” He leaned back and stretched. “We finished the door-to-door . . . Well, we finished all the ones that would talk to us.” He paused. “Make that
could
talk to us. This place is like the Tower of Babel . . . a posse of interpreters would be a start.” His stomach growled, and he tried to disguise it by twisting in his creaking chair.

“Time for a break?” Rebus suggested. Davidson shook his head. “What about this guy Dirwan?”

“He’s a Glasgow solicitor, been working with some of the refugees on the estates over there.”

“So what brings him here?”

“Apart from the publicity, maybe he thinks he can rake up a whole new bunch of clients. He wants the Lord Provost to come see Knoxland for herself, wants a meeting between politicians and the immigrant community. There are a lot of things he wants.”

“Right now, he’s in a minority of one.”

“I know.”

“You’re happy to feed him to the lions?”

Davidson stared at him. “We’ve got men out there, John.”

“It was getting pretty heated.”

“You offering yourself as bodyguard?”

Rebus shrugged. “I do whatever you tell me to, Shug. This is your show . . .”

Davidson rubbed at his forehead again. “Sorry, John, sorry . . .”

“Take that break, Shug. A breath of air if nothing else . . .” Rebus opened the back door.

“Oh, John, message for you. The Drugs guys want their flashlight back. I was told to tell you it’s urgent.”

Rebus nodded, got out, and closed the door again. He headed up to Jim’s flat. The door was flapping open. No sign of the flashlight in the kitchen, or anywhere else. The forensic team had been in, but he doubted they’d taken it. As he exited, Steve Holly was coming out of the flat next door, holding his tape recorder to his ear to check it had worked.

Soft touch, that’s the problem with this country . . .

“I take it you’d agree with that,” Rebus said, startling the reporter. Holly stopped the tape and pocketed the recorder.

“Objective journalism, Rebus—giving both sides of the argument.”

“You’ve talked to some of the poor bastards who’ve been thrown into this lion’s den, then?”

Holly nodded. He was peering over the wall, wondering if anything he should know about was happening at ground level. “I’ve even managed to find Knoxers who don’t mind all these new arrivals—bet you’re surprised by that . . . I certainly was.” He lit a cigarette, offered one to Rebus.

“Just this minute finished one,” Rebus lied with a shake of his head.

“Any result yet from the photo we printed?”

“Maybe no one noticed it tucked away there . . . too busy reading about tax dodgers, payouts, and preferential housing.”

“All of it true,” Holly protested. “I never said it applied here, but it does some places.”

“If you were any lower, I could tee a golf ball off your head.”

“Not a bad line,” Holly grinned. “Maybe I’ll use it . . .” His mobile sounded and he took the call, turning from Rebus, walking away as if the detective no longer existed.

Which, Rebus assumed, was the way someone like Holly worked. Living for the moment, attention span stretching only as far as that particular story. Once it was written out, it was yesterday’s news, and something else had to fill the vacuum it left. It was hard not to compare the process with the way some of his own colleagues worked: cases erased from the mind, new ones awaited, hoping for something a bit unusual or interesting. He knew there were good journalists out there, too: they weren’t all like Steve Holly. Some of them couldn’t stand the man.

Rebus followed Holly downstairs and out into the lessening storm. Fewer than a dozen diehards were left to argue their grievances with the solicitor, who had been joined by a few of the immigrants themselves. This was making for a fresh photo op, and the cameras were busy again, some of the immigrants shielding their faces with their hands. Rebus heard a noise behind him, someone calling out, “Go on, Howie!” He turned and saw a youth walking purposefully towards the crowd, his friends offering encouragement from a safe distance. The youth paid no attention to Rebus. He had his face covered, hands tucked into the pouch on the front of his jacket. His pace was increasing as he made to pass Rebus. Rebus could hear his hoarse breath, almost smell the adrenaline coming off him.

He snatched at an arm and yanked it backwards. The youth spun, hands emerging from their pouch. Something tumbled across the ground: a small rock. The youth cried out in pain as Rebus wrenched his arm higher behind his back, forcing him down onto his knees. The crowd had turned at the sound, cameras clicking, but Rebus’s eyes were on the gang, checking they weren’t about to attack en masse. They weren’t: instead, they were walking away, no intention of rescuing their fallen comrade. A man was getting into a battered red BMW. A man in an olive-colored parka.

The captured youth was now swearing between agonized complaints. Rebus was aware of uniformed officers standing over him, one of them handcuffing the youth. As Rebus straightened up, he came eye to eye with Ellen Wylie.

“What happened?” she asked.

“He had a rock in his pocket . . . going to attack Dirwan.”

“That’s a lie,” the youth spat. “I’m being fitted up here!” The hood had been pulled from his head, the scarf from his mouth. Rebus saw a shaved skull, a face blighted by acne. One central tooth missing, the mouth open in disbelief at the way events had turned. Rebus stooped and picked up the rock.

“Still warm,” he said.

“Take him down the station,” Wylie was telling the uniforms. Then, to the youth: “Anything sharp on you before we search your pockets?”

“Telling you nothing.”

“Get him into a car, lads.”

The youth was led away, cameras following him as he returned to his complaints. Rebus realized that the lawyer was standing in front of him.

“You saved my life, sir!” He clasped Rebus’s hands in his own.

“I wouldn’t go that far . . .”

But Dirwan had turned to the crowd. “You see? You see the way that hate drips down from father to son? It is like a slow poison, polluting the very ground that should nourish us!” He tried to embrace Rebus, but met with resistance. This didn’t seem to bother him. “You are a police officer, yes?”

“A detective inspector,” Rebus acknowledged.

“Name’s Rebus!” a voice called. Rebus stared at a smirking Steve Holly.

“Mr. Rebus, I am in your debt until we perish on this earth. We are
all
in your debt.” Dirwan meant the immigrant group who stood nearby, apparently unaware of what had just happened. And now Shug Davidson was coming into view, bemused by the spectacle before him and accompanied by a grinning Rat-Arse Reynolds.

“Center of attention, as usual, John,” Reynolds said.

“What’s the story?” Davidson asked.

“A kid was about to clout Mr. Dirwan here,” Rebus muttered. “So I stopped him.” He offered a shrug, as if to indicate that he now wished he hadn’t. A uniform, one of the ones who’d taken the youth away, was returning.

“Better take a look at this, sir,” he told Davidson. He was holding a polyethylene evidence bag. There was something small and angular within.

A six-inch kitchen knife.

Rebus found himself playing babysitter to his new best friend.

They were in the CID office in Torphichen Place. The youth was being questioned in one of the interview rooms by Shug Davidson and Ellen Wylie. The knife had been whisked away to the forensic lab at Howdenhall. Rebus was trying to send a text message to Siobhan, letting her know they’d have to reschedule their meeting. He suggested six o’clock.

Having given his statement, Mohammad Dirwan was sipping sugary black tea at one of the desks, his eyes fixed on Rebus.

“I never mastered the intricacies of these new technologies,” he stated.

“Me neither,” Rebus admitted.

“And yet somehow they have become imperative to our way of life.”

“I suppose so.”

“You are a man of few words, Inspector. Either that or I’m making you nervous.”

“I’m just having to re-jig a meeting, Mr. Dirwan.”

“Please . . .” The lawyer held up a hand. “I told you to call me Mo.” He grinned, showing a row of immaculate teeth. “People tell me it’s a woman’s name—they associate it with the character in
EastEnders
. You know the one?” Rebus shook his head. “I say to them, do you not remember the footballer Mo Johnston? He played for both Rangers
and
Celtic, becoming hero and villain twice over—a trick not even the best lawyer could hope to accomplish.”

Rebus managed a smile. Rangers and Celtic: the Protestant team and the Catholic. He thought of something. “Tell me, Mr. . . .” A glare from Dirwan. “Mo . . . tell me, you’ve had dealings with asylum seekers in Glasgow, right?”

“Correct.”

“One of the demonstrators today . . . we think he might be from Belfast.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me. The same thing happens on the Glasgow estates. It’s a spillover from the troubles in Northern Ireland.”

“How so?”

“Immigrants have begun to move to places like Belfast—they see opportunities there. Those people involved in the religious conflict are not so keen on this. They see everything in terms of Catholic and Protestant . . . maybe these new incoming religions scare them. There have been physical attacks. I would call it a basic instinct, this need to alienate what we cannot understand.” He raised a finger. “Which does not mean I condone it.”

“But what would bring these men from Belfast to Scotland?”

“Maybe they wish to recruit the unhappy locals to their own cause.” He shrugged. “Unrest can seem an end in itself to some people.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Rebus had seen it for himself: the need to foment trouble, to stir things up; for no other reason than a feeling of power.

The lawyer finished his drink. “Do you think this boy is the killer?”

“Could be.”

“Everyone seems to carry a knife in this country. You know Glasgow is the most dangerous city in Europe?”

“So I hear.”

“Stabbings . . . always stabbings.” Dirwan shook his head. “And yet people still struggle to come to Scotland.”